A Different Kind Of Stag Night
by frecklesandconstellations
Summary: What if Sherlock and John stayed out later on their stag night? What if John dragged Sherlock to a karaoke bar and things don't quite go according to plan?
1. Chapter 1

"I'm getting married next week!"

Sherlock is busing himself with his microscope, observing a miniature cicada wing. He's thinks it's somehow related to a case, though he isn't sure why yet, so he continues to study its meticulous patterns. He tries to ignore what John has just stated, in order to concentrate better on the task at hand.

John clears his throat, clearly frustrated. He hates when Sherlock ignores him, which is somehow becoming more frequent than his usual bouts of silence.

"Did you hear me, or do I have to be a dead body in order to get you to pay attention to me for once?"

Sherlock scoffs. Whatever John has to say, it's probably not important.

"Sherlock, I said I'm getting married. _Next week. _Surely you know what that means?"

Again, John is met with silence. He rolls his eyes, picks up today's paper and flicks through the pages, waiting for an answer that will not come. Once considerable time has passed, he gives in.

"Stag night, Sherlock. It's when a groom and his male friends go out to celebrate his upcoming wedding."

The other man groans in disproval from the kitchen, just as Mrs Hudson bustles in.

"Just checking you've got your milk, dears... The Lord knows how forgetful the pair of you can be sometimes, what with running around solving your silly little crimes.."

John smiles at her warmly. "We were just talking about my stag night celebrations."

"Oh!" She exclaims, a delighted beam spreading across her face. "Oh, you'll have a lovely time, I'm sure. Just don't get up to any mischief! I can't have my boys misbehaving!" John struggles not to roll his eyes for the sake of politeness - she winks and taps the side of her nose before exiting more quickly than she had entered.

"You didn't get any biscuits!" Sherlock yells after her, clearly irritated. John has learnt over time that he can irritated by practically anything.

Leaving his microscope, the detective stands and then journeys to his chair, where he will undoubtedly sit and think for a while. John is surprised, however, when he speaks.

"And what sort of-" He pauses to scrunch his nose up in disgust, "Celebrations... do these stag nights include?"

John looks at Sherlock for a moment with a puzzled expression, before hastily continuing the conversation.

"Well, I'm inviting Lestrade and Stamford," Another scoff from Sherlock that John chooses to ignore, "I'm thinking of taking you three around my favourite pubs in London, and there's no way you're getting out of it, Sherlock. What's that face for? I _never_ drag you with me for a drink."

"I can assume, then, that you'll be consuming alcohol?" The brunette questions accusingly, in the sort of condescending manner that reminds John very strongly of Mycroft. "..Yes?" John says pointedly. "Obviously?"

"That's all I need to know then. Thank you John. Let me know on the day what time we're going to leave." Sherlock gets up, and brushes out the room with the grace of an odd sort of swan. John looks bewilderedly after him, the familiar feeling of being totally and utterly dumbfounded returning again. This only ever resurfaced because of Sherlock, and John was aching for the day that he might finally understand this stubborn enigma of a man.

For now, though, all the husband-to-be could do was mumble "Nutter," under his breath, before returning to the reassuring common sense of his newspaper.

/A few days later/

"Sherlock, you ready? We're supposed to be meeting the others in five minutes, and you know what the bloody traffic's like!" John calls up the stairs, before hurriedly checking his watch. He hates being late to anything because of the overwhelming stress it causes him, and Sherlock, apart from anything else, unfortunately adds to that. "Come _on!_"

Polished dress shoes appear on the stairs and descend slowly. There he is; dressed in an outfit more suited to perhaps a gala than a casual night out._ Typical Sherlock, being far more over-the-top than necessary,_ John thinks. But there is something elegant about his deep blue dress shirt, the creases folding in just the right places - the way his clothes are almost feminine with how carefully they've been picked. Compared to John's jumper and jeans that he has hastily thrown on last-minute, Sherlock looks... almost ethereal.

John doesn't realise he's been staring until Sherlock awkwardly clears his throat. "Ready, then?"

"Yes, uh," John coughs, "Uh, the erm, Taxi, outside. No, _is_ outside-" But Sherlock has already waltzed passed him and let himself in through the waiting black doors of the car.

The former army doctor sighs, gives himself a moment to breathe, and then joins his best friend in the cab.

It's going to be a long evening.


	2. Chapter 2

Sentiment is one of the many things Sherlock Holmes cannot, and will not stand. What was the point in fawning over pointless events, celebrations, memories, when all that counts is the present? You can't get the past back, so don't waste valuable energy dreaming about it... indeed the same can be said for the future. To him, if it's not now, then it doesn't matter.

But perhaps, just this once, Sherlock will allow himself to reminisce about before. When he had just met John, and things seemed so much more simple. Now, life was so serious, and so adult - he hates it. What about the fun they used to have solving cases? What about when John knew him a little less, and was astounded a little more easily, and Sherlock could fool his friend into thinking he was a heartless detective?

Now John knows him a little better, and forgives him a little less - and Sherlock knows deep down inside, what he supposes he's always known, is that his fear is becoming truer each day. As much as he dislikes to admit it, he's losing control.

He thinks about all of this in the dark enclosure of the taxi, watching the all-too-familiar scenes of London flash by. His hands rest on his lap, and in them he turns his mobile over repeatedly. He's yearning for a text, or a call - something to get him out of this weird night ahead of him, but the country has decided it currently doesn't need his help. Which is typical, of course. The genius detective sighs a little in despair.

"I know you're worried about the wedding, Sherlock."

Panic grips him like a vice, but luckily John cannot see his expression, turned towards the window. A scoff follows, because that's what Sherlock does when he doesn't know what to say, but the other man is prepared for this response.

"You don't have to say anything. But people get married, people grow up. We can't run around London forever, Christ."

No reply.

"...I guess what I'm trying to say is.." John continues warily. "We'll grow apart. And that's normal with friends. I won't see you as much and I won't always be by your side, but it's okay. That's life, that's just the way it is, but you'll be alright. You don't need me by your side all the time."

_But I'm Sherlock, and you're John_, Sherlock wants to say. _It's the two of us against the world, and it always has been. What's the point in changing that?_ But he can't get the words out of his throat, and they sit stuck there instead, like an accidently swallowed piece of gum.

He stays watching the streets outside, hating the horrible silence that follows.

Eventually, John breaks it.

"I need to sort my life out, Sherlock. I love Mary, and becoming her husband is a good place to start."

The corners of his eyes sting, and the man wonders if there is some sort of problem with the air in the taxi. The lights from outside cause him to sit either in too-bright colours, or enveloping shadows. He has always preferred the latter.

The car is slowing down outside a period building, with blaring advertisements screaming pointless information from every window. Cries from groups of men inside indicate that their favourite team has just missed a goal, and the brunette rolls his eyes in bitter disgust.

"First stop, The Two Horseshoes," John proclaims proudly.

Sherlock sinks into the collar of his coat.


	3. Chapter 3

Beers. Tv's. Lads watching the footy. John is struck with an odd sense of nostalgia, remembering his earlier days of going out with his mates on a Saturday night. Watching the world cup during the humidity of summer, cool beers and freedom with friends to wash it down. Trying to pick up girls, only to be embarrassingly rejected before drunkenly stumbling home and hanging onto arms for dear life. It was certainly different before he decided to fight for wars.

John resolves to relive his youth tonight, enjoy life a little. He is, after all, getting married soon! To his beautiful girlfriend, his loyal partner. He smiles.

Then he gulps.

A tap on his shoulder causes him to turn around.

"I was wondering when you'd show up." Di Lestrade grins, giving John's shoulder a friendly slap. "Feels like me and Mike have been waiting for ages!" He gestures to Stamford, who is sitting at a table near the back of the pub, scrolling through something on his phone. Mike looks up, waves briefly, then returns to his screen.

John smiles. "Yeah, well if it wasn't for this..." He mouths _lunatic_, "...genius, maybe we might've arrived on time."

"No problem. Hey, shall we get genius to order the beers?"

John laughs in delight. "I'd fucking love to see that. Sherlock! Sherlock?"

He looks around for his friend... Sherlock is standing by the front doors still, an expression of reluctance on his face. Lestrade rolls his eyes.

"I'll force him, John. Go talk to Stamford, we won't be long."

John nods at him, grateful for the Di's intervention. Although, John has to admit there is something distinctly sweet about Sherlock's absolute ignorance to normal life - his absolute unusualness shielded him from nights out with mates, apparently. He laughs to himself a little - if John told himself two years ago that he'd succeeded in dragging a very stubborn detective to a pub, he wouldn't've believed it for a second.

John's gaining more control over his relationship with Sherlock, and it makes him feel confident. After all, why would Mary want a sidekick, when she could have the hero?

He walks over to the table where Mike sits, joins him, and begins a much-needed catch up.

Lestrade joins them a few minutes later, hysterical about Sherlock. "He was trying to order a pint, and he had no idea what it was! You should've seen the bartender's face, my God-"

Sherlock saunters over, carrying three oddly shaped glasses filled with beer.

Lestrade makes a face. "What the fuck-"

"443.7 millilitres. Not enough to do things you'll regret but enough to sustain a pleasant, buzzy feeling."

The Di lowers his head into his hands, while John takes his cylinder slowly. "Sherlock, I-"

"You'll thank me." The detective replies, before showing his phone displaying various health articles. Greg takes one look at the cylinder, shakes his head and says, "Fuck that," before heading back to the bar and ordering a very large pint, thank you very much.

John laughs nervously, his previous confidence deterring slightly.

"To Mary!" He expresses, raising his cylinder. Mike toasts him with Lestrade's abandoned one, and Sherlock replicates after a second.

He waits until he's quite sure John's attention is no longer on him, before he mutters "To bloody Mary." and then gulps down as much alcohol as he can manage.

Maybe 443.7 millilitres wasn't quite going to be enough.


	4. Chapter 4

"You know, I have no effing clue why pubs have names like these. I mean, Royal Oak? _Really?"_

Lestrade, Mike and John are all sat at stools, their drinks placed on the bar counter in front of them. There's music, and this pub is a little more lively than the last, and there are some good looking girls around. Lestrade likes this place a lot.

"Hm?" He doesn't hear John's remark, perhaps as is focus is on one particular young woman who looks around his age, chatting and giggling with her friends. Mike gives John a look, and John laughs, because Lestrade picking up women never goes well, but it is always so entertaining to watch. They love how he claims to be Mr. Smooth around the ladies, when in reality the most he'll get is "You look a little like my uncle!". It's always pretty funny.

They've forgotten about the brooding detective in the corner, sitting with his mobile, his cylinder and his boredom. The two other glasses he brought for John and Mike stand abandoned, while the two are up at the front ordering things they want to drink. Sherlock feels rather miserable at the lack of fun he seems to be having.

How on earth could John want mundanity like this when Sherlock had given him the free ticket to _real life_? Adrenaline highs, near death experiences, solving crimes and chasing the most ingenious criminals in the country - what was there not to love? The detective can't comprehend it. Settling down with a wife, having children; was that not boring? Why did John want to fit in when there was so much more to experience in standing out?

His mind races. He's trying solve the case with the cicada wing, entering his mind palace in a blind hope to discover answers. But it's becoming trickier these days, when life threatens to throw conflict in his direction. Will he be as good of a detective without John? Probably, but he does not know. Was John going to fade out of his life, only to return for unbearable 'catch-ups', as he so called them?

Sherlock sincerely hopes not.

The dreadful music drones on, and Sherlock decides to stop for a toilet break. It's quieter, away from the sound.

Mike notices that Sherlock has left for the loo, and points this out. Lestrade stops paying attention to the woman, and has an idea.

"Two shots of vodka, please," He asks the bartender. "And make 'em strong."

"Woah, Greg.. you know we'll be going to other pubs too, right? I wouldn't recommend getting shots this early in the evening." John remarks.

Lestrade grins. "They're not for me, John. They're for our lovely detective."

It takes a moment for John to realise what Lestrade is saying. "...Are you sure? I don't think getting Sherlock hammered is the best of ideas, mate." he questions.

"And don't think you should put up with any of his usual bullshit on your stag night." Lestrade says, right as the bartender finishes pouring the second shot. He pushes them over to John. "Trust me, this'll be a laugh."

John isn't sure, but then he remembers all the times Sherlock screwed him over, irritated him, drove him insane... the biggest, obviously, being that he left him alone for two years without letting him know he wasn't actually dead..

It still makes John's blood boil.

"Why not?" The former army doctor resolves. "To be honest, I want to see him shitfaced too."

And he carries the glasses over and tips them into the cylinder without a second thought.


	5. Chapter 5

It's almost 9:47pm in London, at this time John has found himself and his group of unlikely friends in a new pub - one with perhaps a better name than the last. The Red Lion does have a more sophisticated look to it, after all...there's more life here, and more colour - the hues dance in John's vision, and the air is warm.

It's one of John's favourite places in the city.

"Do you think anyone here knows who I am?" Sherlock questions, while Mike quickly adds another shot to his drink while he's not looking. "I mean, I have an international reputation."

"You're not very forgettable, that's for damn sure" Lestrade remarks, signalling the bartender for another beer.

"You could say that," John adds a little wearily, watching his best friend consume more alcohol than he realises. Sherlock, for once, has absolutely no clue what's going on, and there's something about that that John finds peculiarly satisfying.

"I like your hair!" A stranger points out, laughing when John realises they're talking to him. He turns around, only to face a brunette grinning back at him. "Can I buy you a drink?" He asks.

The army doctor freezes. Sitting across from him at the bar is a man with a light dusting of freckles over both cheeks and nose, and a slight rosy complexion from just getting in from the cold. He wears a caramel coat that looks nice enough to be in several magazines and a beanie that he's forgotten to remove. This man is probably a little younger than John, but he has creases around the corners of both eyes where countless smiles would've caused his features to lift.

He's not bad looking at all, really.

John is taken aback that he's caught someone's attention, and a man's at that. He sits in bewilderment at not knowing entirely what to say.

The stranger smiles gently.

"John, I've been busy calculating and I've come to the conclusion that if I get it just right, I might possibly be able to balance this glass on my head."

The detective's voice is coming from somewhere behind him, and John turns around to glance around the room for any sign of his best friend. It doesn't take him long, due to the fact that Sherlock is holding his glass cylinder high in the air, presumably taking measurements or absorbing unnecessary information to store in his mind palace.

"Sorry, I need to sort out.. I've got to-"

"Don't worry about it. Here, feel free, anytime." The stranger slides a piece of paper across the bar in John's direction, before getting up and disappearing into the crowds of other people. John is too distracted by Sherlock's questionable behaviour to remember that he's engaged, and to tell the stranger that thank you, he's flattered, but he isn't gay.

However, there are more pressing matters at hand...

"Sherlock, what In God's name do you think you're doing?" John asks, feigning off his confusion and struggling to hold back some very sudden, very overpowering fits of laughter. He wonders if this is Lestrade's doing, because by the way the consulting detective stumbles over his words and struggles a little to stand upright, John is pretty certain that he's tipsy.

"Well, its's quite simple really, you see, the diameter of the base is around- hey, what's so funny?"

John finds himself doubling over, unable to prevent the creases of laughter controlling his body. He holds up one index finger, as if to say "Hold on a sec!" while he fights to combat his fit.

"Do you have," John breathes, "Any idea," Helpless giggles escape his throat, but he pushes on, "How ridiculous you sound?"

"No..?" Sherlock's response only causes John to laugh harder.

"You're mad." He says quietly, looking down at the floor.

Sherlock is indignant, and rolls his eyes. "No, I'm a high-functioning-"

"Sociopath." John grins, then looks up. His eyes are cast, causing their appearance to look glassy in the dim lights. Sherlock knows it's just the colours, and perhaps the alchobut he's never known eyes to shine quite like John's are, right now.

They stand, looking at each other. John's wearing a bemused smile, and the detective thinks he looks entirely cheesy. The former army doctor observes his best friend, with his alarming head of curls and his frankly alien bone structure and remembers, just for a second, how lucky he is to have this utter buffoon in his life.

Then the moment passes, and Sherlock coughs.

"Loo." He says, before sweeping off somewhere and disappearing from sight. John is left in the dust of his best friend's tracks.

"Not to pat myself on the back, but I knew I'd done something right that day." Mike's voice is behind him, and John turns to face his old friend.

"...What do you mean?"

"When you met." Mike replies. "I think...I think that was all the confirmation I needed."

"Mike, you're not making sense, what confirmation-"

But he is interrupted by a shriek somewhere near the front of the bar, from a voice that sounds distinctly feminine. "You dickhead!" It cries, before the woman in question storms out of the building in undeniable aggravation. Everyone turns, only to find Lestrade in her wake, looking distinctly sheepish. John and Mike head towards him.

"Don't ask." The DI states darkly, his eyes hooded and expression set like steel. His two friends throw their hands up as a gesture to say they weren't going to, and then Lestrade requests to go to a different pub, as soon as humanly possible, if that's quite alright. They set about looking for Sherlock, who is talking to a coat hanger. They finally leave, the people of the pub eyeing the four, muttering amongst themselves how strange they all look.


End file.
